For a Depressed Woman

What happened to the darkness of the grape of the harness?
What happened to break in the steeple of the alarmist?

There is a chalk on the wall, schist of Morningside.
Even scarlet and rib-like silver in a cube.

You’re asleep in all your clothes and the baby, too, sleeps.
Something sucks the liquid from the bottom of an empty glass.

Kneading and dryflexing, these heavy airs make their way
To the harp-like sea… a heaving sour rind still alive in me.

There is a woman here, where she be, a canary in a cavern
Yellow among the windsongs, useable rain, and inmost granite.

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